


Spells ( Fall, hit, see, give)

by Aaren



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, But also dangerous death-defying missions, Feelings, Gen, If really dysfonctional ones, In chapter six, Most chapters aren't that angsty, One Shot Collection, Reasonable amounts of planning, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, They're all good family members
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-08-01 10:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaren/pseuds/Aaren
Summary: Batfamily one-shots. Because sometimes, when your hobby consists of dressing up as a giant Bat, your life's bound to be a little ridiculous.Or really heartbreaking.





	1. A nerve

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is basically a place to murder and dump plot-bunnies in so they'll let me work on the fics I actually need to work on. 
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy! 
> 
> The first chapter is brought to you by my visceral reaction to Bruce literally showering himself with bats in Batman Begins - and various comics. What the hell, Bruce? 
> 
> Also, I refuse to allow a character I admire that much to be an abusive asshole, so there won't be any of that here. I am firmly in denial and live in a land of rainbows and puppies. Feel free to join me. There are maragaritas if you want them.

On a beautiful Friday morning, as the first few rays of the summer sun helped brighten the thousand colors making up Wayne Manor’s orchard, Jason Todd was content. A deep seated feeling of peace was coursing through his veins, allowing him to comfortably enjoy his newly bought novel.

“What the fucking hell were you thinking?!”

Well, that was what he’d hoped for, actually, coming back to the Manor for a few days. Instead, on a sad, cold, dreary Monday night, Jason Todd was in a poorly lit cave, surrounded by complete morons.

Content really wasn’t the word he’d choose to describe his current mood. In fact, the only thing coursing through his veins was his own blood in an admirable and very efficient attempt to elevate his blood pressure beyond levels previously observed in live specimen.

Complete and utter brainless morons. A statement could probably be made about one too many knocks on the head and the loss of rational thought. He’d know. The crowbar had thoroughly beaten that sort of knowledge into him.

“No, really, what the fuck? What reasonable human being goes around their day, thinking _that_ is a good idea?”

There was no answer. Not that he’d really expected one. After years of working with the man, he was used to not getting a verbose answer on a good day, much less on one he was emotionally rattled. He was also used to upholding his end of the conversion anyway. Jason aggressively jabbed at a nasty-looking wound on the Mighty Batman’s jaw with a wipe drenched in antiseptic solution.

“No one, that’s who. _No one_ goes around, thinking: Hey, you know what I’m terrified of? Spiders! You know what would be a fabulous idea? A spider-shower in my suit. Whenever I’m already feeling down, I can lift my spirits by having a thousand terrifying creatures pour down and crawl all over me. That’ll really help my mental state!”

“Didn’t have a choice.” Bruce rasped, speaking for the first time since Jason had found him, nearly catatonic and being swarmed by bats, Joker’s goons fleeing in the distance.

“Bullshit. I was less than a minute out.”

“So you were.”

Jason was just about to ask _exactly_ just what the hell he thought he meant by that when Dick’s voice echoed around the cave, managing to both announce his arrival and keep the situation from degenerating. It was such an easy feat for him that Jason felt the need to deck him one rise again.

“Spider-shower? Please tell me I heard that wrong.”

He scowled harder, snatching a clean wipe from the medical tray and using it to disinfect yet another painful-looking scratch on Bruce’s face. It was soaked in blood in a second and Jason snarled.

“Ask him.” He slammed the first-aid kit closed. “I’m going for a smoke.”

“Jay.” He stopped in his tracks on his way out of the cave, back rigid, at the low sound of Bruce’s voice. “Thank you.”

“Whatever. Don’t fucking expect me to come save your ass again. Especially if it’s your own idiocy that’s endangering it.”

The sad truth was, they both knew he was lying.


	2. Eye to eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Damian bonding. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will love and defend Sierra's Pharaoh until my dying breath. 
> 
> (also, if Tim is a nerd, which it's been proven he is, that's addicted to video games, likes strategy and is a child of the nineties, there is NO Way he hasn't at least played that game once. ) 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Tim heaved a great dismayed sigh as for the fifth time that evening, a building caught fire despite his fire marshal's best efforts. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, dutifully ignoring the way his phone buzzed again on the table next to him.

Today had been a long day to say the least. Between having to handle the latest WE crisis and Batman and Nightwing being over a day late in coming back from their space mission with no communication to explain why; every presently-in-Gotham inhabitant of Wayne Manor was on edge. They’d all chosen different methods to pass the time while waiting for an all-clear or their return. Jason was blowing off some steam on the training mats. Damian was prowling around the Cave like a caged predator, checking his gauntlet’s computer every few minutes. And Tim… Well, Tim was enjoying a well-deserved Pharaoh game on the gigantic screen of the Batcomputer.

He sighed one more time when a message popped up, informing him that his citizens had contracted the plague. He could feel Damian inching closer as he was spammed with four new messages informing him of different buildings collapsing all over his city.

He was looking at about a third of what he mentally called his trading district being decimated by an enemy army as well as an angered god of war to the irritating background music of his phone buzzing when Damian finally decided to speak up.

“You are a horrendous ruler, Drake.”

Tim turned his head to look at him. The little snot looked exhausted, his hands clenching and relaxing every few seconds. He snorted.

“I thought I’d felt something creepy watching me.”

“I was watching the game, if you must know. Unlike the both of you, it has the distinct advantage of being aesthetically pleasing.”

He could see the tension slowly begin to drain from Damian’s frame, the both of them relaxing the more their banter continued.

“God, you’re such a pompous little brat.”

“And you are an anachronistic nuisance. You do not, however, see me bringing it up every time we talk.”

Tim narrowed his eyes.

“You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

“Oh” Damian cocked his head. “Does it not refer to one being vastly out of their proper time period? A shame. The nineties phoned. They would appreciate getting their appalling taste back. I suppose I shall only point them towards the clone, then.”

There was an obnoxious snort coming from the direction of the training mats. Tim snarled.

“Leave Kon out of this, you little-”

He didn’t get any time to extract revenge, however, as Damian plopped down next to him on the seat, an intense frown of concentration etched on his face, and began clicking away at the game. Tim blinked in bewilderment at both the body contact and show of trust Damian was willingly demonstrating. The brat had to be even more worried than he’d previously thought.

“Shush, Drake. If I am to save this city from the numerous disasters your incompetence put it through, I will need to concentrate. Now, explain the basics of this game to me.”

Tim hid a smile as, on the screen, another disaster made its presence known while Damian’s complaining about his inadequacy as a ruler once again filled the Cave.

 

**Jason**

 

_Sunday_ _23:45_

What are you doing?

 

_Monday 00:12_

I’ve seen you win Perwadjyt on Very Hard difficulty.

Don’t try to bullshit me.

There is no way you’re actually losing this mission.

 

_Monday 00:31_

What are you planning?

I know I’ve been very vocal about this.

But no matter my real-life feelings on the subject.

Eliminating your police force is *not* actually an efficient way to win in Pharaoh.

 

 

_Monday 1:04_

Stop ignoring me, you obnoxious little shit.

 

_Monday 1:37_

Oh.

Well played.

But one glaring flaw: I have *recorded* proof you care about the demon now.

Wait until I send this to Dick. I bet he’ll be downright thrilled.

...

Answer me, Oh Anachronistic One.

_Monday 1:59_

shush tod damian neds 2 koncentr8

For the love of what’s left of my sanity, please learn to type properly.

also u have nothin jon snow

_ {Click here to load new media} _

 

Where the fuck did you get that?

 

<3


	3. In love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick has a small moment of realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was emotional. And I love Dick Grayson and want him to be happy.
> 
> Tiny chapter is tiny.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It was on a summer afternoon like he’d lived through a thousand times before that Dick stopped mid-laugh to stare at his surroundings.

To stare at Tim and Damian most definitely trying to drown each other in the pool, their mock-battle dousing Jason and Steph in warm water. At the glint in their eyes when they stopped egging the two youngest on and began promising retaliation instead. At Cass and Wally, in the middle of what seemed to be a grand game of trying to predict each other. At Duke, ever the level-headed one (the only one in this family that possessed a damned lick of sense, as Jason would put it.), perched safely on a deckchair, sipping at a fruity cocktail. At Babs and Alfred, at Clark and Selina. At the sunny sky above him, and the breath-stealing beauty of the place he’d grown up in.

At Bruce, standing at the grill, a tiny smile lighting up the resigned expression that seemed permanently stamped on his face nowadays.

“You okay, chum?”

Dick took it all in for a few moments longer before he turned around, grinning at Bruce so widely his eyes closed; the music and the cheering somehow seeming to fade in the background as he answered.

“Perfect.”

It was a simple sunny afternoon, that was nowhere close to what he'd imagined his life would be. But on this one, just as he had a hundred times before, Dick Grayson looked around him and fell in love with life all over again.


	4. Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian and Dick, on a calm December night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I love them and want them to be happy, too. If Canon won't give it to me, I'll write it.  
> If you're curious, here's the song I was listening to when I was writing this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMc8naeeSS8
> 
> Tiny chapter is still tiny. Big happy chapter coming soon. Big sad chapter coming soon too. ( Around 6-7k each. I was supposed to have finished them before posting this draft, but then the month deadline came up and I'm still missing about 500 words^^. Oh, well. They'll be out soon enough. )

It was the kind of winter evening made to enjoy spending time inside. Snow fell soothingly on Wayne Manor, quieting its darkened grounds with a beautiful blanket of white powder.

In the semi-obscurity of his room, Damian hummed a half-remembered melody to himself as he time and again erased a misplaced line and redrew it. The multicolored garland on the wall behind him that blinked steadily in and out of existence acted as his sole light source, showering his drawing in different hues every few seconds. He breathed in the cool night air deeply as he put his pencil down, taking a few seconds to admire the small crystals trickling from the sky and the way his breath fogged near his barely opened window.

He could hear the distant roar of sound coming from the ground floor, the muted cacophony indicating that two or more of his siblings were currently in the Manor, once again most likely creating something for Pennyworth to fix. He allowed a small corner of his mouth to curl into a smile, enjoying the way the distant sound emphasized the deep sense of peace floating in his mostly silent room.

Damian closed his window, picked his pencil back up and started humming softly again, determined to enjoy the rare night off.

He was putting the finishing touches on his gift for Father when three gentle knocks came brushing against his door.

“Come in.” He acknowledged, turning slightly to face the sound.

The door opened, a sliver of yellow light pushing its way in as Grayson’s silhouette filled the doorway. His eldest brother smiled, leaning casually against the frame yet making no move to walk further into the room.

“Heya, Dami. I’m not waking you up, am I?”

“I was awake.” He inclined his head in a gesture meant to invite him in.

“Good.” Grayson smiled brighter, walking over and hopping to sit on his desk. Damian swept a few sheets aside to allow him more room. “Tim, Steph and I are about to decorate the tree. Do you want to join us?”

“No.” He declined. Outside, the snow continued to fall as the string of lights illuminated his window in timed bursts of colors. He looked back at his brother. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Grayson checked. Damian nodded. “Okay. We’re all watching a movie in the den afterwards, though, if you’re interested. It’s Jason-approved, so you’ll like it, and there’ll be cookies.” His tone lost volume, becoming slightly more raspy and substantially more ridiculous. “Come to the dark side, Dami.”

Only years of training enabled him to refrain from heavily rolling his eyes.

“I suppose I’ll acquiesce to the movie, then. I’ll join you shortly.”

“Great! Have fun, little D.” Grayson jumped gracefully down from the desk, pressing a light touch of the lips in Damian’s hair as he did so. “Take your time if you need to. Love you!” He was out of the room and closing the door before Damian had the opportunity to react.

He got back to work, smiling softly to himself, the content feeling from before having increased tenfold.


	5. For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian gets a letter. 
> 
> Everyone reacts perfectly normally. No overreaction of any kind in this family. No sir. They're absolutely reasonable individuals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having some basic knowledge of Harry Potter is better to read this chapter. Not much, though. I think anyone who's just seen the first movie should be okay. 
> 
> Also, Damian Wayne is absolutely a Hufflepuff. Tim's a Slytherin. 
> 
> I might continue this one if I ever get some good ideas. I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> Warning. The following fluff is tooth-rotting. Proceed with caution.
> 
> Have fun reading!
> 
> Edited because my formatting died on me the first time

He’d have liked to say he reacted with the proper amount of alarm when the first big glaring sign of trouble quite literally flew in the Manor, but in truth Dick was coming back from a bad twenty-four hours shift – including Nightwinging – and was completely exhausted.

So when he walked in Wayne Manor’s living room that morning and was met with an unusual sight, he just stopped and stared.

At the _owl_ in his family’s living-room. Dick slowly looked around, puzzled, hoping to find an explanation in one of the couch cushions, maybe. He didn’t quite know, though would have liked to manage a slightly more practical reaction if there weren’t, you know, an owl in their living room. It was by far one of the most surprising sights he’d ever been met with, if one considered Alfred’s everlasting fight against any kind of invading wildlife.

He spent a good minute blinking tiredly at the owl. The owl spent a good minute blinking back.

Well it wasn’t green, at least, so Beast Boy trying to prank him was thankfully out. Then, Dick finally spotted the letter that was held in one of his talons. The animal seemed unnaturally calm and pleased, and for a terrible, terrible moment he thought of The Court.

This was far from their usual M.O., though. Using real owls seemed inefficient, too, and if this one was a trained killer, it was doing a very poor job of it.

If anyone asked, he was blaming this entire line of thinking on the exhaustion. And on the situation as a whole.

Dick approached the owl with the intent of trying to take the letter from it. It proved to be mightily uncooperative however, as it clipped its beak at him when he came too close, flying off to perch on another cushion before looking around distrustfully with piercing, intelligent eyes.

He stared distrustfully back. He had to get the animal out of the house before Damian once again proved just how many of Bruce’s traits he had inherited and adopted it.

As much as he loved his kid brother and wished him nothing but happiness, they did _not_ need an owl flying around the Manor. The turkey was already one bird too many.

Of course, no sooner had he thought that that Damian had to walk into the living-room in a show of horrendous timing he hadn’t demonstrated in a long time. He spotted the owl almost immediately, lighting up at the sight of the bird, an interested expression painted all over his face.

Interest that seemed reciprocated, because the standoffish owl immediately flew over to him and perched on his right shoulder. And Dick was moving, vaulting over the couch, speeding to stop whatever it was from happening because those talons were far too close to _Damian_ ’s unprotected neck for his peace of mind. It was not normal owl behavior; and sure, maybe he was being paranoid here, maybe it was really just an owl, but he’d learned the painful way that sometimes you could just not afford to take the risk.

And he never, ever could risk losing Damian again.

Dick was less than a second away from managing to deck the animal off his surprised-looking kid brother but all said animal did was drop the letter in his hands. Then it flew away, without ceremony or any of the blood he’d been imagining barely a second earlier.

There was no more time to react, because after casting a last disappointed look the way the bird had gone, Damian had opened the envelope and started reading what was onto the piece of _parchment_ – and Dick was starting to believe he’d fell asleep somewhere on the way back to the Manor or was hallucinating the whole thing, because this was all too familiar in a way his eleven years old self would have been thrilled by – it held within.

“Hilarious, Grayson, truly.” he said dryly, once he finished reading the letter. “I had thought I’d proven myself to be above believing in idiotic fairy-tales during the whole Santa-Claus debacle, but it would seem not. Must we really do this again?”

His kid brother was thirteen. Had been eleven at the time. Admittedly too old to believe in Santa, but still, there were days Dick _hated_ Talia Al-Ghul with  a fiery passion. He breathed through the last of the adrenaline rush, before smiling questioningly down at Damian. 

“What do you mean, little D? That wasn’t me.”

He was stared at suspiciously for a moment before Damian simply put the letter in his extended hand.

 

_Dear Mr. Wayne,_

 

_We have received intelligence that you failed to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – or any other school of magic thereof – this past year, despite our previous warnings concerning your increasingly frequent bouts of accidental magic._

_Further investigation revealed that no other registered Wizard or Witch currently resides with, or near, you. Considering the situation, we find ourselves concerned by your lack of magical education and the problems it could potentially elicit._

_A Ministry representative will be calling at your place of residence shortly to discuss options._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Justin Finch-Fletchley_

_Improper Use of Magic Office, Ministry of Magic_

 

Dick let out a disbelieving laugh, eyes drifting up from the letter to settle on his little brother. Green eyes continued examining him closely a moment longer before narrowing.

“You were not lying.” Damian concluded, as Dick quickly looked from him to the letter and back to him again.

This was ridiculous. This was completely, utterly ridiculous.

And _yet_ -

“Grayson?”

- _if_ he thought back to some of the last few months’ incidents.

“Richard, are you alright?”

The little things he’d noticed but had not quite managed to explain. Damian getting from location to location just a little too fast to be humanly possible. His Robin uniform looking clean and brand new at the end of the night when he’d distinctly noticed the cape being slightly charred or bloodied earlier during patrol, without any of the backup uniforms missing when he’d checked. His jumps taking slightly too long, the falls sometimes just a bit too slow, the hair-color prank Jason had sworn up and down was Damian’s retaliation for a spat they’d had, but they’d found no dye residue and no culprit for.

No. No. There was no _yet_. This was absolutely ridiculous and that was all there was to it. No _yets_ of any kind involved in the process.

He forced a smile.

“I’m fine Dami, don’t worry. Come on, we’re telling Bruce about this.”

“Should we not try to find the owl, first?” Damian asked, the interested look from earlier now back with a vengeance. “Pennyworth would not appreciate encountering it flying freely inside the Manor.” He cleared his throat once, a small blush dusting his cheekbones. “And if this is truly a security breach, I do not believe it wise to let it roam our home without supervision of any kind.”

And Dick couldn’t _not_ hug him at that. He slipped an arm around the kid’s shoulders, dragging him into his side as they started walking in the direction of Bruce’s room.

“Sorry kiddo, but we’re telling your dad first. And then he can help us search for it. With three people looking, we’ll be able to find it a lot quicker.”

Or two people looking for the owl and one looking for prints on what _had to be_ a prank letter.

But Tim, Stephanie, and Cassandra were on an emergency mission in Qatar for the Titans, only due to come back in two days and Jason… Well, while Jason had been coming by the Manor more often for the last year or so, he was currently visiting Kori and Roy on the ex-Outlaws’ unofficial base/island, so nowhere near Gotham at the moment.

No one else had access to the house.

He clung to Damian just a tiny bit tighter.

 

\-------

 

A short explanation and a long search later, and they hadn’t found the owl anywhere .

They had, however, managed to get Damian to confess that he’d gotten another letter before, around two years ago. He’d then been asked whether or not he still had it and why he hadn’t said anything until now. 

In a moment he would cherish for a long, long time –  or possibly even until he died –  Dick then discovered that Damian in fact still had it, having kept it in a box full  of letters,  sticky-notes and other various  scrapes of paper addressed to him  that were  written by different members of  the family. 

How anyone still believed the kid didn’t care was  a mystery he couldn’t wrap his mind around  on a normal day, much less when he was staring at a  sticky-note covered in his own handwriting, dating from about a month after he’d met the kid. A  sticky-note that simply read ‘Out on an errand, should be back by 10. Love you!’

Even m ore important, however, was the fact that he’d kept it there because he’d apparently thought it had been another of Dick’s attempts to give him a more conventional childhood.  Which was precisely why it hadn’t been brought up.

He had to admit the timing of the whole thing coincided  with the Santa-Claus debacle a little too well for Damian not to be suspicious . 

None of that made looking at a perfect Hogwarts letter, beautifully scripted in emerald ink, complete with a Hogwarts seal and his brother name  on it  any easier, however.

 

_Dear Mr. Wayne,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on 1 st September. We await your owl by no later than 31st July._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress_

 

His inner child was positively squealing.  His outer adult was positively squealing, too, if  only just at the quality of the replica . 

Then there was the vigilante part of him that was _freaking the hell out_ , because there was someone out there who had sent this to Damian, two whole years ago, and clearly they could smuggle things directly into the Manor. And in the penthouse, where Damian had been living with him at the time. Whose exact address was on the envelope, down to the room and everything.  And not a single one of them had known about it.

Bruce seemed to be thinking along the same lines, if the way the intensity of his frown was turned up to eleven was any indication. 

Or the way he snatched the letter up and made his way to the Cave, grunting at them to get some  sleep as he did. 

 

\-------

 

They did get to sleep, twelve whole hours of it, before being woken up by a loud popping noise and a letter to the face.

 

_Dear Mr. Wayne,_

_On the 2 nd day of July, A.D., 2018 at 0900 o’clock am, a Ministry of Magic representative found himself unable to enter your property, due to the numerous illegally-placed wards including, but not limited to, a modified Fidelius charm (see attachment A for a comprehensive list) and other Muggle security measures he was confronted to. _

_This offense falls under Section 12 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy._

_You are hereby required to-_

 

He stopped reading, allowing himself a moment to mull it over.

While both the Manor and the Cave _were,_ in fact, magically warded, courtesy of Zatanna, this was still completely ridiculous. The Harry Potter series was just fictional. Magic existed, yes, but certainly not that kind. He’d know.

Wouldn’t he?

 

\-------

 

 

Things were relatively calm, at first, after that. They got a small period of peace during which the only thing that occurred was Bruce and Tim – that was thankfully back from his mission unhurt aside from a few painful-looking bruises and a black eye – throwing themselves into work, trying to find where the letters were coming from and how they managed to get into the Manor.

Then more letters started appearing. All over the Manor, at all times of night and day.

It started with a letter that Alfred found in the fridge, one morning while preparing breakfast. Then another in a vase near the entryway, that Tim spotted coming back from the Wayne Enterprises building, on the following evening.

And then they were _everywhere_. In Damian’s food (which had Alfred scowling and glaring at everyone and everything for the rest of the day.). In Damian’s painting supplies, then on his pillow. Pouring down the chimney. In Tim’s briefcase. In Dick’s shampoo bottle. Amongst Bruce’s socks. Floating at eye level and repeatedly poking the back of the head or the ears of anyone who went outside, until they finally gave in and opened them.

Or destroyed them.

It was very hard to believe a letter possessing some degree of sentience was not genuinely magical when it was plastered all over your face and following you like an aggressive, flying Jack Russel whenever you tried to get rid of it.

Sometimes even while screeching out legal jargon for the entire house to hear.

About a week after the whole debacle began, a lightly tanned Jason showed up on the Manor’s doorstep, a couple of parchment sheets in hand, furiously demanding to know what exactly they thought were trying to pull this time.

Bruce skillfully pretended not to freak out any more than he already was, but Dick _knew_ him, knew when he was trying to hide behind work, and Jason’s abduction and confinement to the Manor afterwards were more than telling, for that matter.

Some letters were still being delivered directly to Damian by the owl. Others just seemed to appear randomly, in increasingly impossible places.

He, Bruce and Tim tested some of them again for everything they could think of. Prints, poison, any kind of residue that might indicate a provenance or give a clue as to how this was happening.

_England, London, unknown adult male of Caucasian origin._

Dick even managed to place one of his trackers on the long-eared owl while Damian – who had now taken to carrying bird treats on his person at all times and was halfway through domesticating the damned menace, to everyone else’s dismay. – was feeding it.

They watched the corresponding little dot on the Batcomputer as it flew abnormally fast to the British Isles, disappeared for an hour in London only to come back to Wayne Manor two days after it left, another letter proudly held in its beak.

His beak. Damian had determined the owl to be a male Asio Otus Tuftsi. He had also named it Timothy for, he quoted, ‘being a nuisance the family was slowly learning to tolerate.’

Dick had to break up a fight for that comment.

Nevertheless, Timothy stayed a lot more often in the Manor after that.

 

\-------

 

“This is utterly ridiculous!” Damian shrieked, slamming his hands down on the dinner table. “You can not do this.”

Bruce stared back impassively, both unfazed and unimpressed by the oncoming temper tantrum; and Dick loved his family with all his heart, really he did, but that did not stop him from having entire days of wanting to strangle them. When they were being particularly obtuse.

Like now.

“This is not up for debate, Damian.”

He was absolutely going to have to stop Robin from sneaking out to patrol anyway, wasn’t he?

He looked from his kid brother to his adoptive father, glaring at each other from opposite ends of the table, locked in an intense battle of tempers and wills. Dick sighed.

Yes. Yes, he was.

“It’s only temporary, Dames. Whoever is doing this is targeting you and we still don’t know how they’re doing it. Or what lengths they’re willing to go to get to you. We’re only benching you until we’re sure you’re not in danger out there.”

Damian’s furious glare shifted from Bruce to him.

“No letter arrived in the Cave. Nor did they try anything during patrol.” He pointed out, almost hissing out the answer. “It is unlikely that they are aware of our other activities.”

“Yet.” Said Bruce in a very final tone, standing up. “We’re done talking about this. Tim-”

Dick winced. He knew exactly were this was going and boy, was it _not_ going to go over smoothly. Damian had been looking forward to working with Bruce on that bust for the last three days.

Case in point, h e was turning very red, his glare becoming downright  vicious . Dick was preparing himself for  an eruption of epic proportions  when two things happened at once. 

The glass table Steph had been standing next to suddenly  _shattered_ , causing her to yelp and dive to the ground. 

And the vase on the other side of the room blew up, spraying shards everywhere. 

Damian flinched,  a  startled look on his face.

“Stephanie?” Bruce grunted the question out, standing up from where he’d crouched protectively over Dick and Tim, who were the closest to him.

“I’m fine!” A blonde head popped up. “Not a scratch. Sadly, I can’t say the same about the rug, though. Anyone got any idea what _that_ was?” 

They watched as  Damian whirled around and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.  Bruce stayed for a moment longer, probably confirming to himself that they were all okay. He intercepted D ick’s gaze and jerked his head towards the glass. Dick nodded back, smiling reassuringly to let him know that yes, he had this covered. 

Bruce ruffled his hair then walked out after Damian. Whether it was to talk it out or just make sure his son wasn’t alone in a house where things had a tendency to explode, he wasn’t really sure, but still, it was progress and  he would take it.

Jason had already starting collecting samples and taking pictures of what was left of the vase, so Dick turned towards the table. 

“That sure wasn’t caused by any explosive I know of.” Jason said, picking up a porcelain shard with his now uniform-gloved hand and examining it closely. “At first glance, there’s no residue. No smell, no chemical and no heat. Weird breaking pattern, too. I mean, mechanical stress could have caused the table to spontaneously shatter, _I guess_ , but not that ugly thing. And that’s not even considering how suspicious the timing is.” 

Dick sent him a  proud smile. That only prompted the other to stand up from his crouch and slightly glare in return.

“What you’ve all forgotten about my particular proclivity for pyrotechnics, already? I’m hurt. I’m not just good-looking, you know? There’s a brain to back it up.” 

“I don’t think now’s a great time to quote McGonagall, Jay.” Tim muttered, looking towards the door Damian had stormed off through. He then turned to Dick. “Should we let him cool off or go after him, you think?” 

“Cool off. Let Bruce try. We’re sampling this first. Then I’ll go talk to him.”

 

\-------

 

They finally went to Zatanna.

It was an utterly unhelpful visit, or even, dare he say it, a complete waste of time. She stayed cryptic the whole time, not really confirming nor denying any of their assumptions. She was very apologetic about it, and made it clear she’d have like to explain but _couldn’_ _t_ answer.

After that, well… After that the incidents multiplied. From the littlest things, like the lighting of a room not being _quite_ right, depending on what Damian was feeling at the time, to the most noticeable like objects changing sizes when he wasn’t looking or moving (Damian’s cup at breakfast even going so far as to move four whole centimeters to his hand as he was blindly groping for it, eyes stuck to the newspaper), he seemed to be constantly noticing something new, now.

“Bruuuuce, I’m going crazy.” Dick complained one night, falling down on the one remaining spot of the couch a family member wasn’t occupying, and closed his eyes. He leaned against his adoptive dad chest because damn it, he needed him right now, grown man or not. “That must be it, I’m going crazy. there’s no other explanation.”

“You’re just jealous that Damian’s possibly a wizard and you’re not.” Jason snickered, slouched in another couch, where he was re-reading the fifth Harry Potter book – of all things – claiming to be doing ‘research’. Dick personally thought he was doing it purely to be obnoxious, but he knew better than to say these kind of things out loud to his face.

“Like you’re not? I knew you when you were eleven, Little Wing, you can’t lie to me.” He retorted. “How come you’re so ready to believe in this anyway? I thought you were the skeptic and I was the hopeful one.”

“I’ve seen shit more unbelievable than this, is all.” He said, turning a page.

“I guess. Still, don’t you think-”

And then suddenly, the chest underneath Dick’s cheek was rumbling, shaking with a deep slow laughter they didn’t get to hear nearly often enough in his personal opinion. And he was pushing himself up, casting a betrayed glance at that absolute _**traitor**_.

“No.” He gasped.

“Bruce!” Jason protested.

Not _that_ absolute traitor. _Those_ absolute traitor _s_.

“I’m sorry, chum.” Bruce chuckled, putting an arm around Dick’s shoulders affectionately and using it to draw him back in the half-hug from before. He let him, mind still reeling, figuring all the hows and whys and-

“No. You didn’t!”

He’d been played. Betrayed. Was surrounded by backstabbers. They’d dared-

“Oh my god.”

 

 

 

 

\-------

 

 

 

 

**Seven months earlier:**

 

Damian Wayne was bedridden, nursing an infected stab wound and a foul temper under Alfred’s ever-vigilant care when Drake barged in his room, visibly battling the same sort of unpleasant emotions he himself was.

Todd, lounging next to the window, just as infuriatingly devoted to his jailer role as he had been for the past few days, barely deigned to look up from his book at the dramatic entrance. Damian refrained from snapping at the show of childishness. It felt like something of an accomplishment, considering current circumstances.

Drake threw himself in the chair by the bed in a needlessly theatrical manner, his eyes cold and his jaw clenched in a perfect imitation of Father at his worst.

“Take a chill pill, Babybird.”

Todd looked up, frowning when no sarcastic answer came slashing through the air in retaliation.

“Okay, now I’m officially worried. What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Drake hissed, aggressively re-checking, then changing Damian’s bandage.

“Right. And all that fire you’re spitting is, what? Your new and improved way of honoring your surname?”

“Not now, Jason.” He ground out. “Just… not now. I’m not in the mood to argue with you.”

The book was closed and put aside as Todd looked them both over with a serious look in his eyes. He crossed his arms before he spoke, tone hard.

“Too bad I don’t give a shit, then. Spill.”

“I had a fight with Dick, okay?!” Drake snapped. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“What about?”

“I don’t even know. We were disagreeing over something stupid and it escalated. And then-”

The way he was very purposefully looking anywhere but at Damian or at his wounded leg was absolutely telling. Todd must have reached the same conclusion, because-

“Want me to deck him?”

“What? No!” Drake looked absolutely horrified.

“Do not even think about it.” He hissed, once again wishing his leg allowed him more freedom of movement. Waiting until the following day to be allowed to get out of bedsuddenly seemed even more intolerable than before.

The brute smirked at their reactions and Damian had to hand it to him, he had managed to masterfully distract them both from their somber moods.

“Just saying.” He shrugged, turning back to his book. “I’d be glad to help if you want to get even.”

They spent the next few minutes in silence, Todd reading and Drake seemingly still lost in thoughts. Damian cleared his throat.

“I wouldn’t object to helping either.”

He looked down, trying to escape their stunned expressions.

“Not hurt him, _obviously_ , I’m not a mindless brute, but-” Timothy had fallen afoul of Grayson’s temper and he couldn’t help but feel responsible. Very slightly responsible. “-you did not deserve to be yelled at.” He frowned. “This time.” He amended.

“Uhm. Thank you?” Drake tentatively said.

He gave a single nod of acknowledgment in answer.

Another five minutes passed by without any of them speaking, though this time the silence felt comfortable as opposed to the awkward it had been earlier. He was about to fall in a rough sleep when-

“I have an idea.” Drake said, slowly, blandly, but with the kind of gleam in his eyes Damian had painstakingly learned to become wary of. His eyes drifted up from the cover of the book Todd was reading to look determinedly at them both. “Well, no. I have a bit more than an idea.”

A lazy smirk spread on Todd’s face and even in his currently miserable state, the youngest Robin could not deny the spark of curiosity he felt upon hearing the declaration.

“I’m all ears.”

“Do tell.”

 

\-------

 

“Not gonna lie, I’m kinda disappointed we’re going to have to go with MACUSA and not use some of the characters from the books.” Todd prattled on, instead of completing his assigned task of looking up locations to buy parchment from.

“Why wouldn’t we?” Damian questioned.

“I know you watched the movies with Dick, kid. You know why.”

Both of his brothers were looking at him attentively now, and he tried to clarify what he’d meant.

“You are not unaware of the extended reach Grandfather’s organization possess.” He only received a noncommittal shrug and a cold calculating look in response. They were not unaware, no. However, Damian sincerely doubted they fully realized the extent of it. “Properly maintaining such an international influence is far from effortless. It often requires higher-ranking members to personally meet.”

“Are you trying to tell me-” Todd looked positively gleeful. Damian interrupted him.

“I was born during one of Mother’s extended stays in London, yes. Though we traveled a great deal over the course of the next few years in an attempt to protect me from my role in Grandfather’s plans, we did live in the United Kingdom for months. Both Father and Grayson are aware of that fact.”

Drake looked grimly satisfied at the news. He pulled up a blank document on his laptop and started typing.

 

\-------

 

“You realize it’s not gonna fly if we don’t get Bruce to help, right?”

 

\-------

 

“Father, I require your assistance!” Damian said as he swiftly entered the study, safe in the knowledge Nightwing had just departed for Blüdhaven and would not risk overhearing their discussion.

“Good morning to you too, Damian.” Father said dryly, looking up from an admittedly impressive stack of paperwork. “I see you’ve taken Alfred’s etiquette lessons to heart.”

Damian stiffened.

“My apologies. I-”

“Cut it out, Demon Brat, he’s not actually mad.” Todd sent a scathing glance to the surprised-looking man seated behind the desk. “B, we need to talk.”

Then, it was Drake’s turn to appear in the doorway behind them. Father raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the sight.

“Is this some kind of intervention?” He asked, some humor coloring his voice.

Drake stared back impassively for a brief moment before mirroring his expression perfectly.

“Why? Is there a reason we should stage one?”

A smile played at the edges of Father’s lips. He turned back to Damian, purposefully ignoring the question as Drake’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What would you like my help with?”

“I would ask that you lent us some money as well as-”

“What he means-” Todd once again rudely interrupted him, gesturing impatiently. “-is that we need some money, a room no one ever goes to and you to play dumb.” He looked considering for a second, then- “Please.” -he added as an afterthought.

“What for?” An attentive, if cautious, glint had sneaked into evaluating blue eyes.

“An owl.”

“An owl.” Father repeated skeptically. He shook his head. “You have enough pets as it is, Damian.”

“You’re missing the big picture, here, Bruce.” Todd retorted. “It’s for the greater good. Us working together, _Ju_ _stice!_ , infiltration training, pulling one over Dick. Whatever you want to call it, I don’t give a flying fuck, but it’s just the kind of shit you stand for.”

The attentive glint had evolved into an interested light.

“Now trying to prank Dick, I can believe. Explain.”

 

\-------

 

“Bruce,” Barbara said pleasantly one evening over the phone. He took a moment to appreciate her tone, proud of how utterly bone-chilling she could make ‘pleasant’ sound. “Would you care to explain why I’m looking at security footage of you and three of your sons exiting a pet store with an owl?”

“What can I say, Barbara?” He smiled. “I’m an eccentric billionaire whose child’s birthday is coming up. And you know how much Damian loves his pets.”

“Of course.” She hummed agreeably. His bloody, scraped fingers tightened around the phone. “I’m glad you’ve changed your mind since we last talked about it. An owl is so much more reasonable than the kitten Dick and I wanted to give him.”

“He already has a cat.” Bruce pointed out. “I wanted his thirteenth birthday to be memorable.”

“Completely understandable. That makes it his, what? Fourth? Fifth pet?”

“Seventh, actually.” He said, completely unrepentant.

“Right. I’d forgotten about the Bat-Demon and the dragon. My bad. And I suppose you were all wearing your respective equivalent to a shit-eating grin because you were so happy for Damian.”

Bruce looked around the newly built aviary, at his youngest son that was in the process of trying to train the damned _menace_ of a bird, looking as happy and relaxed as he’d ever seen him. He always was when it came to animals. A few meters over, Cassandra was joining Tim and Jason in the corner they were huddled in, furiously elaborating the plan on a whiteboard.

“Something like that.”

“Wonderful. Let me go share the good news with Dick, then. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to learn you’re all getting along.”

She had him there. Considerably worse, however, was the fact that she knew it.

“What makes you think I don’t plan on telling him?” He asked, mostly to be difficult. Years of conditioning, perhaps. Losing the habit after all this time would be a serious waste of his time. She scoffed.

“Please. If any of you had any intention of telling him, Damian would already have. And something that made Damian smile like that? Dick wouldn’t shut up about it for a week. Additionally? Everyone knows that the quickest way fighting siblings unite is when they get to gang up on another one. The smiles Jason and Tim were sporting spelled trouble.”

He looked at the corner of the room his middle-children had claimed.

Well, she wasn’t wrong.

“Ah, about that-”

“Yes, Bruce?” Barbara said, voice saccharinely sweet. Sweet as lead sugar. He absolutely refused to cringe. “Is there something you’d like to share?”

“Why don’t you come over to the Manor, one of these days? I believe we could reach some sort of mutually beneficial agreement.”

“Wonderful.” She said again, tone far closer to her usual one than the pleasant one it had been at the beginning of the conversation. He laughed quietly again, genuinely this time. “I’ll see you tonight.”

 

\-------

 

“Well, that’s a hundred hours of calligraphy practice I never thought I’d get.” Jason remarked, giving another finished letter for Damian to dry, once Alfred was done recording the last of the Howlers.

Bruce, who had just finished helping them with falsifying evidence, took off his gloves, then his googles before finally shrugging off his lab-coat. Then, his transformation from mad-scientist back to slightly ruffled-looking billionaire complete, he walked over to Jason and Tim, putting a hand on their shoulders.

“I’m going to contact Zatanna.” He announced, squeezing affectionately once.

“God, I can’t believe you nerds are supposed to be cool.” Stephanie said, with a generous amount of both fondness and sarcasm in her tone as she watched him exit the room.

“Hey, I resent that!” Jason protested, also looking towards where Bruce had gone and smiling a little. “The only cool I’m legally supposed to be is the cadaveric kind.”

“Case. In. Point.” She grinned at the same time as Tim groaned in complete and utter exasperation.

“Jay. What did we agree on about the death jokes?”

“That they were hilarious?”

“No.” He stared at Jason’s now shit eating grin and groaned again. “I hate you. I hate you and everything you stand for.”

“Oh no. How shall my broken heart ever recover from your perfidious slight?”

“Please stop talking like the Demon Brat. It freaks me out.”

“I certainly do not speak in such a ridiculous manner.”

“Sure you don’t, brat. Sure you don’t.”

“You would do well to remember who here is training Timothy, Todd. I can still teach him to attack you on sight.”

“I knew it, you little shit! I knew you’d named Errol after me just so you could say things like that!”

“His name is not anything remotely as idiotic-sounding as Errol."

Stephanie tuned the bickering out, turning to cast desperate eyes in Cass’ direction. The only sane member of the family patted her comfortingly on the back. She gestured at the room.

“Can _you_ believe this bunch of idiots are supposed to terrify criminals? Or even just manage to protect Gotham?”

Cassandra smiled reassuringly, shaking her head fondly.

“They don’t. We do.”

“Amen to that, Cass. Amen to that.” She nodded. “So, what locations did you come up with? Because I’m warning you, I’ve got some great ones. Won’t be easy getting the letters there, but we-”

 

\-------

 

“Hey, Bruce?” Jason poked his head in Bruce’s office, on a rare quiet afternoon. The billionaire looked up from his computer screen and quietly wondered how his second son had managed to get past the building’s security. “Do you still have that ugly-ass vase your aunt gave us on my twelfth birthday?” 

“It’s a priceless family heirloom, Jason.” He mildly protested.

“Hm-hm. A nightmare-inducing heirloom from a side of the family you hate.”

He didn’t bother denying it. Jason nodded thoughtfully.

“Cool, thanks! See you tonight.”

His head disappeared from view. Bruce felt a wave of dread wash over him. He had a feeling Alfred was going to make him thoroughly regret not telling Jason no.

Never mind the fact that the butler abhorred the eyesore as much as any of them did. Giving each other insulting, atrocious gifts was a point of pride between Alfred and Bruce’s Aunt; the both of them having been locked in a veritable war of pettiness since his taking custody of Bruce.

 

\--------

 

“Hi Wally.”

“Tim? What are you doing here? Is something wrong? _IsitRiddleraga_ _i_ _-_ _Waiti_ _sDickoka_ _y?_ ”

“Everything’s fine. Sorry. I know I don’t usually make social calls, but I-… Well, we’ve got a plan and we could really use your help. How would you feel about using superspeed for something other than hero business, for once?”

“Uh-Sure, you know I’m always happy to help you guys. What is it?”

“I’ll explain in a minute. Are you still in touch with Miss Martian?”

 

\-------

 

“Wait, _Bat_ _s_ is in on this, too?” Wally snickered. “Man, I can’t wait.”

 

\--------

 

In the end, Dick simply laughed. The sound was ablaze with joy, ridiculously happy at the situation he was in, at the fact that his family was finally managing to get along. If he were being a hundred percent honest, though, they was a good number of other emotions thrown in the mix, too. So the way Jason and Tim paled at the cackle was really, really sort of rewarding.

Damian looked secure in the knowledge his big brother would never retaliate.

That was okay. More than okay, actually. He’d learn soon enough why Robin had ever started being associated with mischief.

It was absolutely _on_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For anyone's who wondering what's happening with Quarter Past Midnight, I am working on it, wrote 3000 words for it last week actually, but am still reworking some things, so please be patient with me! 
> 
> I can thank you all enough for the kind comments, even though I really suck at replying at them. I'm sorry about that.)
> 
> Anyway, see you soon!


	6. A wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because no matter what fic I write, Roy harper has to show up apparently. 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING!!!!!!!!   
> A character in this has thoughts that could be considered suicidal idealisation. Another hurts himself. Please, if this triggers you, do not read this. Take care of yourself. Skip to the silliness of the next two chapters. I hope you're doing okay. And if you're looking for a sign not to commit suicide, then consider this as your sign. I want you here, fighting and breathing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was saved on my computer for the longest time as :"Tim Drake and the rattling tale of the magically appearing coffe cup. "
> 
> That said, it is not a happy tale. It is very angsty. It is also Jason centric - "Oh, no, what a surprise!", I can already hear you say from behind your computer screen. I know, I know. I am aware of my bias. With a hopeful ending because I can't help myself, but still angsty.   
> Because I had to re-read angsty comics I hate to love and love to hate, so you guys get the aftermath.
> 
> The next two chapters are pure crack, to make up for it.

_**10.** _

It started, as many other unfortunate moments in Jason’s life did, with Bruce.

In truth, by now, Jason should have known better than to answer his call for help.

He really should have known better than to push Dick away from the beam of weirdly colored energy racing towards him; barely hearing the faint, terrified whisper of ‘no’ as it proceeded to slam in his head instead of Nightwing’s.

But then again, when he woke up lying face-down in a puddle of drying vomit with a pounding headache and bleeding ears, he wasn’t that surprised by his instincts’ betrayal. The family could take Jason being gone. It wouldn’t survive Nightwing _really_ dying.

He let a small bitter chuckle escape. He’d really never learn, would he?

_**9.** _

Robbing a few drug dealers of their money and using them to collect intel was such a routine thing to do that it’d become boring. That said intel was about an entirely new world even lost its charm after the first few travels through the multiverse.

Gotham’s decaying state, however, was entirely new. And way too reminiscent of the early days following the quake, when all that was left in its wake were attempts to cope.

There were a thousand protocols Bruce had taken the time to drill into them in case they ever suddenly found themselves stranded in another universe.

Politely put, Jason did not believe in them.

Oh, they were all well and good for, say, Nightwing or Batgirl. The Red Hood’s situation usually tended to be a tad more complicated. Sadly, as was with many other things, Bruce tended to not believe in Jason’s disbelief either. As such, he was expected to follow protocol. In a world where the Justice League existed and worked for the good of the innocents – in a non-lobotomizing people sort of way – any stranded Bat-person was fully supposed to contact them.

Well, fuck that.

Good thing he chose not to, too, because getting chased by Superman all over Gotham’s rooftops was turning out not to be a fun experience for anyone involved. He didn’t particularly want the full team on his ass.

(He’d know. His early years as the Red Hood were full of pain. Being Bizarro’s teammate sometimes could be, too.)

If he ever made it home, Jason would try to be the bigger man and not emphatically rub it in their faces that he’d told them so, if it weren’t for the tiny but relevant fact that _he had told them so._

What kind of backward world was this that Superman operated out of Gotham, anyway? One where Batman and Superman acted in beautiful constant friendship, fully expecting the other to pick up the slack in their territories all the time, thus allowing themselves a few vacation days?

Somehow, he doubted that. While the multiverse was infinite and such a thing was possible, _he guessed_ , his luck was never that good.

This world seemed darker. Superman was a lot more violent, too.

And while Gotham admittedly often had that effect on people, Clark Kent tended to be as immune to moral corruption as he was to everything else.

It all pointed to a conclusion he didn’t like thinking too deeply about. Something that would have been nice to know before causing a _tiny_ bit of mayhem in the city. A flaw of extracting information out of drug-dealers, he supposed.

“There hasn’t been a Red Hood in Gotham in many years. Who are you and what do you want?”

Not too threatening sounding, right? Right. Not too easy to answer either considering he was being lifted by the throat, helmet half-shattered, shards of it buried in his head.

Meh. He was used to it.

Superman sure as hell shouldn’t be. He usually had more restraint than that.

The Man of Steel ripped what was left of Jason’s helmet away, frowning. Which, ouch. More confusing than painful however was the small flinch that made an appearance when he smirked confidently at the alien.

“Jason? Jason Todd?”

Hope visibly bloomed on Clark Kent’s face, lightening his eyes and easing the deep lines that marred his face.

Jason wasn’t sure what he wanted to do more: Laugh hysterically or puke. The Red Hood inspiring hope in Superman. That was a new one.

He ended up doing both.

_**8.** _

Jason had barely had the time to explain his situation before Kent dragged him to the depths of Arkham Asylum. He’d considered resisting, but escaping through Arkham’s revolving doors was a lot easier than escaping Superman’s grip on his wrist, so he went along quietly. Mostly quietly.

Until he saw the name on the door of the cell. Until Supes, most likely animated by that profound desire to _fix_ they all seemed to share, said in a bright, booming voice:

“You have a visitor, Mr Wayne.”

Until the bare shell of a man residing in the tiny cell turned around, face gaunt and colorless, so vastly different from the well-groomed person he knew.

“I did it, Jay-lad.” Bruce said barely a minute later, eyes feverish and both hands cupping Jason’s face, his thumbs rubbing tenderly over newly-bruised cheekbones. “I did it, you’re safe. You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe. Everyone is. He’ll never hurt anyone else ever again. He payed. He’s dead. Dead. Dead, dead, deaddead _deadDEAD_ -”

He continued repeating the word over and over, almost chanting it as his eyes stared listlessly through Jason.

“You did, Bruce.” Superman said very softly, something immeasurably sad dulling his gaze. He delicately put a hand on Bruce’s shoulder while Jason stood there, frozen. Useless. “He can’t hurt anyone else.”

Bruce finally, _finally_ , stopped chanting, instead focusing his wild eyes on Clark with a startling intensity that was only enhanced by the slight beard peppering his haggard face.

“He can’t?”

Clark sighed. Jason shook out of his stupor and removed himself the room, almost running up the length of the grimy corridor, only letting his emotions explode once he was out of Bruce’s earshot.

“What the fuck was that.” It came out less as a question and more as a growled statement. Fuck him, but he was turning into Bruce as he grew older. He whirled around, landing a furious punch in the wall behind him. His reinforced gloves protected his bones from breaking, but the stinging across his knuckles served its purpose in grounding him. “What the fuck.”

His breathing was way too rapid, but he didn’t care. He looked behind him when he heard the creak of that door closing. That impossibly dark and looming door.

It was terrifying how tired Superman looked, exiting the cell. Of course, if Jason had to venture a guess, he’d say he didn’t look much better.

“Explain. Now.”

Putting _Bruce_ in Arkham.

How much longer would he have lasted before dying of _**“** _ natural causes _**”** _ had he not been transported to this world?

That he hadn’t escaped but was still alive implied a lot of things about his sanity Jason was resolutely not thinking about.

“Right.” Kent cleared his throat. “Right. I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

“You think?” He laughed, somewhat hysterically. He got an extremely uncalled for look of reproach in return.

“You said you were from another world, right?” Jason gave a curt nod. “Well, on this Earth you-Oh, there’s no way to sugarcoat it. You died when you were fifteen, murdered by the J-”

He waved the explanation away.

“Yeah, yeah, crowbarred and blown-up by the Joker, been dead, done that. Why’s Bruce like _that_?”

Superman looked at him like Jason was the extra-terrestrial being in the room. Which he was, probably, now that he thought about it.

“Because...he loved you?”

His breath caught.

Pull your punches, why don’t you.

“Something else must have happened.” He decided, instantly hating the small waver of doubt that had invaded his voice.

“Well, yes.” Superman winced. “There was an incident. Shortly afterwards, Joker was made ambassador for the UN, and thus granted complete diplomatic immunity; absolving him of any and all past crimes. Including your murder.”

“What brain-dead _moron_ thought that’d be a good idea?!” He spluttered.

“That was the gist of Bruce’s reaction as well. Looking back on it now, I should have known. No. I think I knew, deep down. I just didn’t want to believe he would betray such a fundamental part of who he is.”

The picture Superman was painting was starting to make an awful lot of very ironic sense. Jason clenched his hands into two bloodless fists.

“Of course, Joker tried to kill everyone present using some sort of gas, so I intervened. Bruce didn’t try to save a single person that day.” What. “That should have been my second big warning sign. I flew away to safely release the toxin, but I was too slow. By the time I came back, he’d already killed him. According to witnesses, Joker tripped while trying to escape. Batman… didn’t.”

“So he’s done humanity the biggest possible favor he could have. Why’s he in Arkham?” He deserved an Oscar for the way his voice stayed steady. For the way he kept his facade of calm even as anger flooded him, temporarily keeping misery at bay.

“You did not see him that day.” Superman shook his head. “When I arrived back on the scene, he was staring down at the body, completely immobile. Then something just _broke_ , I think. He started laughing. I- I took him back to the Manor.”

He paused. Jason snarled impatiently, motioning at him to keep talking.

“I tried talking to him. He slipped away to patrol Gotham that night. He killed five other people before Nightwing and I managed to subdue him.”

Oh, this was _just_ _rich_.

“Figures. Even insane and an entire universe away, he’s proving his goddamned moral code’s more important than anything else.” He was stuck somewhere between a sneer and a snicker.

“It’s not that, Jason.” Kent was staring at him strangely again. Like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. “Your death broke him. Betraying himself like that was akin to reaching into the breach and tearing his sanity out. He could have barely taken one or the other, certainly not both at the same time. Nightwing and I had no choice but to stop him.”

Aaaand, Jason was _done_.

“It was justice, was that it? The high and mighty Nightwing and Superman acting for the good of the people? Treating everyone the same no matter what they’ve done or why they’re doing it? Don’t tell me you actually believed _he_ could get help _here_ .” He tried to calm himself. He could always have _words_ with Nightwing later. Many words. Painful, tangible words. “And what the fuck were you _thinking_ , dropping me in his lap like that?!”

“I hoped-”

“No.” Jason cut him off. He didn’t have time for that bullshit. “Hopeful doesn’t mean naive. You know it doesn’t work like that. What were you thinking? Were you actively _trying_ to send him into an episode?!”

“But he’s my friend.” He said helplessly, stealing a glance back at the closed cell door. “Just… he’s my friend. I thought it would help.”

It turned out, seeing the hope fade from Clark’s face felt a lot worse than seeing it flood it. He found that he didn’t like it _at all_. He took a deep breath and walked back to the door.

“I am not leaving him in this shithole. Got a problem with that, Superman?”

He entered the cell without waiting for the hero’s answer.

_**7.** _

Superman didn’t appear to have a problem with that, or chose not to act on it at the very least, for Jason encountered little to no issues bursting Bruce out of the Asylum. The man followed him like a wounded puppy. A wounded puppy with cutting, intelligent if delirious eyes that still observed far too much of their environment.

Yeah, Jason wasn’t letting him roam around unsupervised any time soon. A wounded Batman was a Batman that was dangerous as fuck.

Stealing a car was easy. He managed it in under a minute after getting them out of there. Getting to Bristol didn’t take very long, either. A quick glance at the Manor proved it was completely empty – had been for a few years, Alfred would never let the garden get to that state otherwise – so he drove back towards the penthouse instead.

Gotham had a Batman. The partial information he’d gathered when he’d arrived in this shitfest of a world had told him that much. Somehow, he couldn’t imagine Batman 2.0 commuting from Blüdhaven every single night.

He parked the car and put – what was left of – his helmet back on. Bruce whimpered.

Jesus fucking Christ.

The penthouse was thankfully occupied, if only by Alfred at the moment. Jason would have honestly liked an opportunity to confront Dick as soon as possible, but he supposed getting Bruce out of the line of fire first was probably a good idea.

The man looked like he had aged fifty years since Jason had last seen him.

“Master Bruce?” he asked in a slightly shaky voice, his hands holding the shotgun not doing much better. Bruce raised his head at the sound of his name, picking his litany of ‘Deaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead-’ back up, hands tearing at the cuffs of the sweatshirt Jason had wrapped him in.

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick.

“Give me that before you hurt yourself, Alfie.” He said gruffly – tactlessly – gesturing to the shotgun. Less than a second later, it was promptly pointed right between his eyes, as steady as a rock.

“I should think not.” The trembling had completely vanished, leaving him to wonder if his imagination had simply been playing tricks on him. “Stay right where you are. Master Bruce, come here, if you please.”

Bruce obeyed, walking towards Alfred. Jason wasn’t too worried, the man had basically lost 90 percent of his muscle mass while in Arkham, but still-

Something whizzed past his shoulder, tearing a line into his jacket without drawing blood. He put his foot back on the ground as Alfred’s eyes glinted menacingly from the other side of the room.

“The next one won’t be shot in warning, sir. I asked you to stay where you are.” His voice softened as he addressed Bruce again. “It’s alright, Master Bruce. Come here.”

Miraculously, despite having flinched at the gunshot at first, Bruce did. Unfortunately, he began laughing in a way that was way too eerily similar to the Joker for Jason’s comfort as he did. He stopped a few seconds later, looking at them for a brief moment before deciding to tear at his hair instead. And to bite through his bottom lip. Multiple times.

Jason stared at the small trail of blood dripping on his chin in horrified fascination.

“Stop that now, Bruce. You know I disapprove of that sort of behavior.” Alfred shushed gently. “Good lad.” Then his voice grew full of hardened steel. “Now, sir. I do believe you owe me an explanation.”

“Erm, could we just wait until Dick gets here?”Jason raised both hands, palms up in front of him defensively. “I’d really rather not have to explain twice.”

Going by the look on Alfred’s face, that was going to be an emphatic no. So he reached up to take off his half-helmet and the mask he wore underneath.

Then had to dive behind the couch to evade the rounds his grandfather figure was firing at his head. He felt some blood flow down from a cut the bullet he’d been slightly too slow to entirely dodge made in his skin.

Wrong move, apparently.

In insight, he realized how it could have been misconstrued as threatening. Crazies hid all sort of stuff in their masks, nowadays. Or their hair, if the name of said Crazy started with a ‘D’ and ended with ‘amian Wayne’.

Hair explosives, _honestly_. Whose ‘brilliant’ idea had that been? The kid was going to get himself killed.

He was about to use his helmet as a distraction – maybe throw it towards the entrance and let it explode, it shouldn’t hurt anybody that way – but luckily, that was when Dick chose to barge back in the penthouse, descending on the apartment with a kind of desperate fury Jason had rarely seen in him.

\-------

“I should probably preface this discussion by saying that I’m from an alternate universe. So don’t get your hopes up, Dickhead.” He piped up from behind his bullet-damaged couch.

Dick stiffened. Good. An angry Nightwing meant a combative one and Jason was very much in the mood for yelling or a few punches.

“Can I get up without my head being blown to bits?” He asked.

“We don’t kill.” Replied Dick, tersely.

Oh sweet, deluded, summer child.

There was very little Alfred Pennyworth wouldn’t do to protect his family, if given the chance. Case in point, his grandfather figure was staying suspiciously silent. Jason decided to plead his case a little more before risking it.

“Can I just point out that if I intended to hurt any of you, I could just have taken Bruce out without coming here, first?”

“I suppose so.” Alfred finally conceded. Though whether it was to his observation or his request, Jason didn’t know.

He stood up.

“So, again, before I say anything else: alternate universe.” He waited for a reaction of some sort, but none came. He sighed, then took off his mask.

There was a beat of silence, as their eyes roamed over his battered and swollen face, not recognizing him, before-

“Master Jason?”

“Hi, Alfie.” He smiled. Dick had gone very pale, mouth opening and closing repeatedly, tears shining in his eyes. “Sorry for the scare back there. I-”

He stopped in his tracks. Looked around. “Wait, where’s Bruce?”

\-------

As always when faced with something urgent to do, Dick seemed to compartmentalize, putting the search for Bruce in the forefront and shelving his reaction to seeing Jason until later.

He didn’t seem to be able to stop himself from stealing disbelieving, though hopeful, glances in his direction every few seconds, however.

And, well, their reactions to seeing him had _implications_. And Jason didn’t like implications. He preferred cold, hard truths by far.

He could hazard a guess as to what had and hadn’t (yet?) happened in this timeline. What hopefully never would.

Luckily, they found Bruce relatively quickly. In the garage, in the middle of trying to get to the Batmobile. Which they should have expected, really.

‘Don’t underestimate crazy people.’, an autobiography by Jason Todd.

Dick gave a full-body flinch at the sight of his father figure, and Jason felt himself start to boil at the reminder. He gritted his teeth and mostly stayed silent until the least-resisting Batman ever was safely back in Alfred’s hands, only answering Dick’s inquiries with monosyllabic grunts.

“What are you going to do with him now?” He asked, once they were back in the penthouse. He’d had enough common sense to wait until both Bruce and Alfred were out of earshot, at least, but the last thread his patience had been hanging on had officially frayed.

The other seemed to sense there was no good answer to that inquiry. Still, he stiffened up in anger at the accusatory tone Jason was using.

Good.

“I guess putting your so-called family in asylums is kind of your to-go move, so sorry I forgot.”

“Huh?” Dick’s brow furrowed in angry confusion.

“Did you for a _single second_ , -” He spat out. “- consider the possibility that _maybe_ putting him in Arkham with all of the other psychopathic criminals he spent years fighting against, some of whom know his real identity by the way – Hell, some he’s been traumatized again and again by – was sure as hell not going to help him? What _exactly_ do you think happens in that hell-hole, _Dickie_?”

“Well, WHAT THE FUCK WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO?” Dick roared. “You were dead and Superman comes and gets me from _space_ because Batman had just started _slaughtering_ people, and I had to deal with the fact that I had just _lost_ you, and there was no stopping him, and-” He stopped suddenly, a pitiful noise of helplessness and grief tearing its way out of his throat. “And in the end I lost him, too.”

Well, shit. He couldn’t even stay angry without feeling like an asshole, now.

Upon further reflection, yeah. Yeah, he was more than okay with that. Conscience perfectly clean and everything.

“Oh, Big Fucking Deal! _Boo-hoo,_ I lost a kid I never gave a shit about. Cry me a river. Guess what, Dickwad? You might have had nothing to do with my death, but you wouldn’t have lost Bruce if you hadn’t given up on him. That one’s all on you.”

That was about when the punches started flying. To be fair, Jason admitted he absolutely deserved the first one that landed on his jaw.

The one he landed in Nightwing’s stomach felt damn good, too.

\-------

They’d both been holding back, the fight more a cascade of wild punches and kicks with no real strategy or form to back them up than the precise dances they were capable of; but the true thing that stopped them from tearing each other apart in their brawl was Alfred coming back in the living room and raining the wrath of God down on both their heads. He’d barely needed three sentences to do it, too.

Not their proudest moment. Jason cringed as he sat on the couch, slightly stunned, and longed for that level of mastery of language or weaponized disappointment.

“I’m sorry.” Dick spoke, voice rough. He was staring fixedly at some spot on the wall in front of him, jaw clenched. Jason startled of the pensive mood he’d entered, fumbling with the ice-pack he’d been holding to his face. He snorted, then winced when it sent a throb of pain through his smarting nose.

“Pretty sure I was the one that started the fight here, Dickie.”

“No.” Dick shook his head. “Not for that. For not being there when you needed me. If I’d just-” His voice cracked.

“If ‘you’d just’ what? Been there more? Learned to predict the future? Wait, don’t tell me. You think you should have been able to magic yourself exactly to the right place, from space, on a gut instinct that _maybe_ something was wrong.”

The big idiot stayed silent and clenched his jaw harder. Jason sighed.

“I don’t blame you for that, Dick. I never did. Even if you’d been able to stop me from dying there, then what? A week later with a bullet? A year, using knives? He does love his knives.” He grimaced. “I knew the risks. Probably better than you did. I chose to be Robin anyway.”

“Don’t. Don’t talk about yourself like you were just some statistic. Like it was bound to happen.”

“Well, it does seem to be a recurring theme no matter what universe I visit.” He joked.

It fell flat.

...Tough crowd.

He switched his warming ice-pack for a fresher one, tossing another in Dick’s direction after a moment of hesitation. The bastard caught it without even making an effort to look.

He missed Roy. The archer at least had the decency not to be constantly perfect. Jason blinked rapidly a few times, hoping to dislodge the ball of grief lodged in his throat.

It was well past time to change the subject. He got up and went to rummage through the kitchen for a couple of beers. When he came back, Dick hadn’t moved in the slightest.

Jason cleared his throat as he sat back down on the couch.

“So, what’s the deal with Superman being in Gotham, anyway?”

Dick grimaced, gingerly putting his new ice-pack on his bruised stomach.

“Being both Nightwing and Batman without some kind of external help was impossible. He offered. I accepted.” He answered curtly.

Honestly, that he even managed to take care of two cities at the same time was impressive. Particularly considering what two cities they were.

“What, the cowl getting too much or something?”

“I was becoming too good at it.”

Huh, well what do you know? The Golden Boy admitting a flaw. Would wonders never cease? That still left the most important piece of information out, however.

“So, no little Robin worshiping the ground you prance on?”

Dick looked up and at him like he was completely insane. He’d almost missed the look, these last few years. Brought back shitty memories and everything.

“Are you serious? After what happened to you?”

“You’re preaching to the choir, here, Dickie.” He raised his beer in the other man’s direction, then gulped it down. “But seriously, no other Gotham-based vigilante?”

“Officially? Oracle and Batwoman. I don’t know how I’d manage without them.”

“Nobody does. And unofficially?”

Dick sent him A Look.

“There’s a couple of kids. We’re trying to get them to stop but- Well, let’s just say that it’s not going too well.”

Jason grinned.

“Let me guess. One’s about three feet tall, full of sass, and scarily good with plans. His friend’s marginally taller, has some serious balls and a purple fetish.”

“Yes?” Dick’s gaze sharpened, his tone growing more inquisitive. “You know who they are.”

He smiled angelically, took another gulp. Shrugged.

“Nope, sorry, not a clue. Never heard of ’em.”

He reveled in the crimson color Dick’s face was turning. And not just due to the well-deserved bruises that were splattered all over it, either. His smile morphed into a smug smirk.

“This is serious, Jason! They could get hurt or killed out there!”

Why, thank you Dick-tective. Like he wasn’t painfully aware of that.

“Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer, _Dick_.”

His older brother rubbed a hand across his face, sighing, thoroughly exasperated.

“God, you’re even more annoying than I rem-” He muttered. Then paled. “No wait, I didn-”

Jason chuckled bitterly.

“Yeah, you did. Really feeling the love, here, bro.”

Dick was still spluttering and looking absolutely horrified, so Jason decided to put him out of his misery. Only, not in a gruesome way.

Wrong choice of words.

“ ’S alright, don’t get your green panties in a twist. Death does that to people. Deforms their memories.” He snorted again. It was no more pleasant than it had been at the start of the conversation. It also caused a drop of blood to drip down from his nose and fall on the hand that was holding his beer. He stared at it. “Hell, you should see how Bruce chose to remember me back home. Trust me, you’re doing fine.”

The couch cushion beside him dipped under a heavy weight. Then, he felt an arm drape over his shoulders and draw him closer to his brother. He closed his eyes.

“Not all perfect in your world either, then?” Dick murmured.

“You could say that.”

“Sorry.”

“ ’S alright.”

The arm wound around his shoulders tightened.

“No, it’s not.”

“No, it’s not. Complaining about it sure as shit won’t make it better, though.”

He could feel Dick’s shoulder rise in a half-shrug.

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Something that sounded distressingly close to a sniffle got muffled in his hair. “But you should still have someone you’re comfortable talking to.”

They stayed like that, in comfortable silence for a moment, until Jason drew away from him and tried to regain some composure. Dick took pity on him, cleared his throat a few times, and helpfully provided a distraction. It was all very painfully awkward.

“Do you want to tell me about those kids?”

When he felt he had enough control over his voice, he asked in as real a light-hearted tone he could muster.

“You really haven’t made the connection? C’mon, don’t tell me Tim’s not sassing the everloving shit out of you here.”

Nothing. He searched Dick’s face for the slightest hint of recognition.

“Tim. Your little brother? Tim Drake?”

“Drake Industries’ CEO? You know him?”

Jason stared.

“You don’t? At _all_?”

He’d known this world was thoroughly fucked up but he hadn’t thought it went this far.

_**6.** _

Jason took the time to do a quick sweep of the perimeter to determine the best way to enter the heavily secured Drake home before simply deciding to test the front door.

To his ever growing amusement and frustration it opened without him having to unlatch any kind of lock. And without triggering any alarm he could detect. If one didn’t count Dick’s reaction, that was.

He simply rolled his eyes as he closed the door behind him. The kid could out-think anyone on the planet, had even defeated _Lady Shiva_ , but _boy_ was he a complete disaster when his guard was down.

They explored the ground floor, finding the most prominent sign of life to be the sheer amount of old cups strewn on every possible flat surface. Then, there were the piles of crumpled clothes. Alfred would have had an aneurysm. And, while Jason wasn’t too far from one himself, Dick looked about two seconds away from grabbing a mop to use as his weapon in a valiant crusade against the mess.

Some things never changed.

They found the proud owner of the house in a secluded study, seated at a desk with his back to the door. He was completely absorbed by something on his laptop screen.

Jason gestured at Dick to stay quiet, mouthing ‘Watch this.’, then proceeded to make his way to the kitchen and brew a fresh cup of coffee. He came back to the study, carefully walking up to Tim, putting the cup near his left hand as Nightwing looked bemusedly on.

They waited a minute or two in silence.

It didn’t take long for Tim to reach for the cup and down half of it in one go, still unnervingly focused on his work, before stopping to stare down at it with a baffled expression. That was about when Jason felt the need to announce their presence.

“Aaand you’re dead. Seriousl-”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence, having to drop and roll out of the way of a flying cup – still half-full of scalding liquid – that was on a suicide course to his forehead. He looked back at its scattered remains.

“Good reflexes. I ain’t cleaning that shit up.”

Tim didn’t answer, too busy giving Nightwing an evaluating once-over.

“You don’t seem worried.” Dick observed.

“Nightwing doesn’t kill. And you’re the real deal.” Tim dismissed.

“Neither did Batman.” Jason took great joy in pointing out.

The temperature of the room seemed to drop drastically when its youngest occupant turned to glare daggers at him.

“Don’t-” Tim hissed. “- you dare talk about things you don’t understand.”

“Calm down Medusa, I ‘understand’ just fine.”

Were he a dramatic person, he’d have chosen that moment to reveal who he was to Tim. He’d have taken his mask off with a flourish and a serious expression on his face, waiting for the moment of realization the other would no doubt go through.

But he was not that dramatic. So, he just waited for Tim to say something.

“How would you?” He shook his head. “No. How did you find out who I am? I know I was careful.”

On _second thought-_

“How do you? Know who I am, I mean.” Dick stepped in to ask before he could do anything.

Party-pooper.

\-------

He let Tim explain his entire tragic back-story to an increasingly sympathetic Dick, only half listening.

(Jason knew that expression. The kid was about three seconds from being smothered to death. He had no intentions whatsoever of being caught in the crossfire. Particularly knowing that Dick was already emotional to begin with. Had been all night.)

No. He was much more interested in snooping through Tim’s current research. Research that was on mental health and asylum blueprints.

He squashed down a rush of fondness he sure as hell hadn’t asked for.

There was also the whole plan on how to eradicate Ra’s influence from the entirety of North America that Jason was not going to touch with a ten foot pole. Not on his life. Not even if someone told him the Joker would permanently die if he did.

Well, okay maybe he would in that case. Good thing the fucker was already dead in this universe, then, wasn’t it?

A version of Stephanie that looked a lot less stressed than the one he knew joined them at some point during Tim’s explanation. To Jason’s immense delight, she casually greeted Nightwing by name. She spared him a curious glance, but settled in to listen to the other two without questioning his presence, until-

“Jason? Jason Todd?”

He only really tuned back in to the conversation at the sound of his name. He turned away from the file he’d been reading to see alternate-Tim examining him with a godawful amount of hopeful admiration.

Is that what he could hav-

No point dwelling on his past choices. He and Tim had gotten past that a long time ago.

He smirked confidently.

“The one and only. Now, before Big Bird here-” Dick tried to mask a flinch at the nickname. He succeeded. Mostly. “-gives you his most hypocritical speech on how you’re too young for the vigilante life, I’ve got to ask.” He turned to face Stephanie, jabbing a thumb in Tim’s direction. “Has he ever used his ‘Mr. Sarcastic’ persona in this universe?”

They all startled. Jason had to admit his question had jack-shit to do with the somber mood of the room or the very important topics that were sure to be discussed that night.

But on the plus side, though, Nightwing had stopped looking like a psychopathic jackass had repeatedly kicked his puppy in front of him. And the look of admiration had vanished from Tim’s face to be replaced by a very blank expression instead.

“Mr Sarcastic, really?” Dick chuckled, a little too brightly.

He nodded.

“Oooh, yeah. According to Superboy, it made the Discowing suit look downright tame.” He ignored the indignant ‘Hey’ his comment received, turning to stare pleadingly at Stephanie instead.

“He tried.” Steph nodded somberly, also ignoring the hissed ‘Don’t tell them!’ that came from Tim. “Thankfully, I nipped _that_ in the bud before too many people saw.”

“Please tell me you have pictures. My Tim’s been to the Oracle School of Deleting Embarrassing Evidence. It’s a pain in the ass getting any kind of good blackmail material in this family.”

“Boy, do I ever.” She waited for a beat to pass. “What’s in it for me?”

“Don’t you _dare_!”

Jason slipped an arm around her shoulders and steered her away from the other two, smirking.

“Let’s talk business. I have several anecdotes on Nightwing I think you’ll find _very_ interesting.”

\-------

The night was pleasant enough. For Jason, anyway. Probably less so for Dick and Tim, locked in an argument over what the appropriate age for vigilante-related activities was in Batman’s city.

He had to drag Dick out of the room at some point, let him cool off a bit.

Being put in that particular position was… Weird to say the least. He walked back into Tim’s lair, sighing, to see said teen looking mulish.

“Jason.” He looked towards Tim at the call. “If you came back to life in your universe… Is it possible for our Jason to-”

And _there_ was the question that Dick hadn’t yet scrounged up enough hope to ask. Jason gave the answer he’d been preparing himself to give from the start.

“No.” He lied firmly. “Not a chance.”

“What happened?” Tim asked, hesitantly.

“Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”

And _that_ wasn’t even a lie.

_**5.** _

He declined Dick’s offer to go back to penthouse for the night. He knew he couldn’t face much more time with insane Bruce at the moment.

He needed some time to think.

He dragged his feet through the city, not really paying attention to where he was going. Until he looked up and found himself in a very familiar apartment.

A clearly lived-in one.

He’d no sooner made the decision to get out of there that-

“Hi.” A cheerful voice called out. “You have about thirty seconds to explain what you’re doing here and how you found this place. Unless you really love hedgehogs and would enjoy looking like one. Which, no judgment. You do you, man, I’ve seen weirder.”

If he thought hearing that voice again was painful, it was nothing compared to the sight that greeted him when he turned to face the door.

“Roy?” His voice broke. “ _Lian?_ ”

And wasn’t that ten shades of unfair.

Roy tensed. He stepped forward to shield Lian a little more. The arrow that had been aimed somewhere between his shoulder and chest a second ago now was now firmly pointed right between his eyes. It was too reminiscent of Alfred doing the same for Bruce and Jason had been shot at enough already this week, thank you very much.

“Okay, scratch that. Five seconds.”

“Jason Todd. Lazarus Pit. Parallel universe, we’re friends. You once told me you were in a band. I didn’t know you still lived here. Dick Grayson or-” Jason rushed out, all in one breath. “- Clark Kent can confirm.” He finished on the seventh second.

“Lazarus Pit.” Roy laughed incredulously, his grip on his bow not relaxing in the slightest. “That’s really not helping on the trust front, I hope you realize that.”

He did. But he wasn’t a human pincushion yet either so he was still counting it as a good decision.

Why, yes, he was aware his standards were somewhat on the low end of the scale.

“It was a long time ago?”

“Still not helping.”

“I’m sane these days?”

“Do you actively _want_ to get shot?”

Jason smiled, the ball of grief from before coming back to lodge itself again in his throat. He shook his head no. Roy stared at him disbelievingly.

“Dude, you suck at this.”

But he still wasn’t full of arrows and Lian was sent to safely spend the night with Black Canary, after a few worried phone calls.

Then the person he trusted the most, miraculously _alive_ and _happy_ with his also _alive_ daughter, all because Jason hadn’t been brought back to the fold in this world, turned towards him and said:

“So...Spill.”

And Jason did.

\-------

“And you would not stop ribbing me about that damned bag full of heads.”

“That does seem like a life-choice I would criticize.” Roy nodded a lot later into the night, looking weirded out. “A lot. Are you sure we’re friends?”

Silence.

“Okay, so I’m going to gloss over a lot of your story here, because woooow it is, in fact, a _lot_ . And pretty insane. Damn, and I thought _my_ teenage rebellion was bad.”

Jason couldn’t help but ask.

“Are you doing okay? With...” He gestured at his arm.

Roy’s eyes narrowed. In the dim lighting of the room, without any of his usual fondness, it was almost scary.

“Told you about that, did I?”

“Are you?”

Then the redhead’s eyes softened again.

“I’m fine. Got one question for you, though.”

“Shoot.”

“How on earth did you get into your head that anything that happened in this world was directly your fault and not due to Batman 1.0’s absence? Because I gotta tell you. That’s narcissistic and a big fat load of bullshit, dude.”

_**4.** _

Jason perched himself next to what used to be his favorite gargoyle, using the cover of the night to observe the scrawny, half-dead homeless kid below without spooking him.

Jesus Christ, had he ever even looked half that bad?

He lined up the shot, though not cocking the gun just yet, taking a few minutes to simply sit there and watch. If he took the shot, it wouldn’t be murder. It would be more along the lines of a mercy kill. Putting a life out of its misery.

A logical weighing of pro and cons he was the only one capable of making.

Would whatever had brought him back the first time do it a second time, too? He didn’t want to condemn the kid to crawling out of another grave. Worse, what if he decided to burn the body and he woke up during that? But he had to face the facts. There was no hope of natural recovery for the brain-damaged bundle of scars and bones below. From what little horrors he remembered from his second time out on the streets, it wasn’t a life much worth living, either.

He cocked the gun.

He couldn’t bring him back to Dick and Bruce in that state. They could barely take care of themselves as it was, no way they’d manage Jason Junior. It would be a disaster for everyone involved. And he couldn’t in good conscience put him through the abominations that were the pits, either. He didn’t wish that experience on anyone.

Then again. This Jason wouldn’t be alone thousands miles away, lost and betrayed by a father he still couldn’t help but care about. He wouldn’t be terrified in the League’s hands. He’d be safely in Alfred’s.

And they’d studied the effects of the pit.

Though, he’d also be stuck with an insane Bruce...This was so far beyond the realm of terrible ideas it ought to have come out of whatever part of Dick’s brain had spawned the name ‘Wing-Ding’.

It was precisely the kind of ridiculously optimistic idea he made a point to avoid having, because _the world didn’t work like that._

But he could give it a chance.

Jason dropped down in the alley, landing a few meters away from his alternate self. Getting close to him was more complicated from the ground than the direct line of sight he’d had from above. He had to toe aside some seriously unsanitary things before he could finally reach the garbage bags the other was huddled behind.

“Alright, you little shithead. You’ve made it this far. Good on you.” He tilted his head to the side, considering. “Just what are you willing to go through before you give up?”

His alternate self’s raised his head and his sunken eyes zeroed in on the red bat symbol on his chest.

Jason laughed, his first deep, genuine laugh since landing in this parallel world. As always when it came to him, the only accurate answer to that question seemed to be: ‘Try me, asshole.’.

Oh, well. He was bound to storm at least one League base to retrieve Damian, in any case. He could afford a little detour.

_**3.** _

“Hey, Tim. What would you say if I told you that I outrageously lied to you and now need help fixing the reason why?”

“I’d ask what the reason why is, mostly.”

Jason pushed his alternate-self in front of him for Tim to see.

“Well, meet me.”

Tim paled at the sight. Then frowned in concentration.

“Does Nightwing know? Wait, no, don’t answer that, of course he doesn’t. Okay. What’s your current working plan?”

\-------

Convincing Damian to come with them to Gotham was simultaneously much easier and harder than anticipated.

On the one hand, the kid had all respect whatsoever for his father drilled out of him from a very young age. So, _that_ argument failed spectacularly.

On the other hand, he so obviously longed to belong somewhere, to be more than a pawn in a complicated political game that he didn’t have to insist that much. Dick was going to have a real piece of work on his hands, though. Jason wished him all the luck in the world trying to work with the extra years of abuse the little snot had been put through.

Convincing him to let them use the Pit for his brain-damaged self was another matter entirely. But they managed, eventually.

After that, the stealth aspect of the mission took a sudden, if predictable, nosedive while trying to maneuver a banshee-like Jason Junior away from the putrid pools and in the direction of the Batplane.

With Tim and his ginormous brain helping and a _way_ too happy Red Arrow piloting – If it could be called that – the airship, they managed to only fight a reasonable amount of ninjas and escape mostly unscathed with all objectives completed.

Sometimes Jason wondered when exactly his life had gone so wrong that ninjas came in reasonable and unreasonable amounts nowadays.

He rolled off where he’d been taking a few seconds break on the floor of the plane to walk to the restrained and still fully panicking Jason Junior. He did his best to soothe the kid, tucking him in a blanket when he eventually passed out from sheer exhaustion.

Him waking up trapped wouldn’t be fun by any mean, but letting him loose on the plane when he was surrounded by four complete strangers and his last memory was of the Joker was a Bad Idea, capitalization fully required.

Jason also set up an IV. The Pit may have fixed everything that needed fixing, but it didn’t stop the other from looking like a gentle tap could break him in half.

Then he walked over to Tim.

“Thank you. For helping, with all of this.”

The kid smiled at him.

“You’re welcome. I wasn’t going to pass up the chance to save Robin.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “He’s not going to be in a great place, when he wakes up. Don’t let him give you any shit.”

“I expect as much. Ra’s tried to put me in a Lazarus pit, once. It was...” He wrinkled his nose. “Not fun for anyone involved.”

Jason snorted.

“I’ll bet. Still. Don’t take anything he says to heart. You’re a great vigilante.” He said gruffly.

Tim’s eyes grew wide and he turned tomato-red.

“I-Wha-I-.” He stammered. Then his little aristocrat facade was back on. “Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you.”

Jason shrugged.

Then he lunged forward to catch a dagger out of mid-air before it impaled Tim in the back of the head.

“Drake.” Damian spit the word out as he slid out of the shadows.

“Al-Ghul.” Tim returned coolly, not bothering to turn his head more than a few degrees.

“We meet again.”

Jason was stuck on a plane in the middle of a baby-supervillain convention with no way to escape. He realized there were aspects of his plan he had not totally thought through.

“Okay, deeply ironic of me to forbid anyone from killing anyone else, but could you at least wait until we’ve landed?”

_**2.** _

As expected, putting them all together was a complete fucking disaster.

Alfred looked about twenty years younger than when Jason had first seen this universe’s version of him, though, so he figured they’d be alright eventually.

With a lot of time.

_Maybe._

Once he was sure the situation was under his and Dick’s control, Jason left them all behind and drove his stolen car to Metropolis.

He was sure Superman, as dark as he was in this universe, would not refuse if he asked one favor or two.

_**1.** _

Traveling through the multiverse thanks to League-approved technology was a lot easier on the nervous system than doing so via sketchy, probably life-endangering villain spell.

There were parallels to be made here with doing drugs. He’d refrain. Some things you didn’t joke about.

_**Ha.** _

He stood back up, wiping at his bloody nose and observing his surroundings. Definitely Batcave. Right one even, judging by the constipated expression of grief on Dick’s face or the total lack of monument to his Robin days.

If he found _a single_ red helmet being displayed in any kind of case, he was shooting the person responsible in the dick, Bat-armor or no Bat-armor.

To be honest, though, the real indication that he was in the right place was the way the giant screen of the Batcomputer was full of what looked like energy reading analyses of where the fight had taken place in. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Home, sweet home.

Not really.

“Can definitely confirm you guys are assholes in every universe. Except for the replacement. You’re a fucking delight, Timmers, don’t ever change.”

Time seemed to freeze for a second as the sound of his voice reached the inhabitants of the Cave, the spell of disbelief it created only breaking when his most affectionate brother knocked into him in his best imitation of a body-snatching octopus.

“See.” Jason muttered, slowly raising his arms to hug back, still mindful of his aching bruises. “Asshole. I’d barely managed to get up.”

“Report.” Barked Bruce as he swooped over, healthy, angry and _sane._ Jason realized he’d been staring just a moment too long, searching his eyes for the slightest hint of the broken man he’d seen.

“Nothing we don’t already know, Batman.” He snarked. He’d have saluted if his arms weren’t still trapped by Dick. “Lazarus pits are awful, Superman packs a mean punch, and no matter the circumstances you’re trying to prove me wrong.” He closed his eyes, fighting back the wave of exhaustion threatening to drown him. “It sucked, Bruce. It really sucked.”

“Lazarus pits.” Bruce immediately repeated, his voice full of steel. “Were you exposed?”

Oh, fuck him. Fuck him to hell and back.

“Do I look magically healed to you?” He snapped, still too tired to do much more than that, like open his eyes or lift his face from Dick’s shoulder. Not that his brother was complaining.

“That is not the only way to use the pits.” Bruce said. “Nor is it their only side-effect. Answer the question.”

“Bruce, maybe we co-”

“No, I wasn’t.” He smiled, slowly. Sickly. He pulled away to look at the other. And he had to look particularly bad; or maybe it was just the lack of aggression when he usually had it in spades, but something in Batman’s posture faltered. “Believe me, you’d know by now.”

Bruce carefully did not flinch, but the steel wall he was hiding behind visibly crumbled. There was still no hint of that crazy glare. He was his usual wall-of-muscles self. His face was peppered with near-invisible scars and he was sporting a five-o’-clock shadow, but he looked-

Well. Not fine _exactly_ , but definitely not about to harm himself to calm down.

“I-” He raised a hand to Jason’s shoulder, but stopped himself at the last moment, letting it fall back down at his side. “I am glad you’re safe, Jason.”

Jason nodded, then looked at the ground, unable to hold his gaze.

Had he been right? Did this Bruce just care less?

Or had he been horribly, horribly wrong and would that other world have been the result?

His eyes blurred with tears and Bruce’s hand found its way to his shoulder, in the end.

\-------

A visit to the infirmary later and he was deemed as healthy as one could be after an encounter with a pissed Alfred.

Who cared about Superman? Neither Jason’s mind nor his wounds had forgotten about the butler shooting him. Something else to discuss with him later. If, and only if, they managed to talk in private.

He exited the Cave through the Manor’s entrance, determined to at least steal one of Bruce’s expensive cars to make himself feel better. (He’d helped. This could be his reward. Or retaliation for Bruce being a total jackass.)

He was walking past one of the living-rooms, trying to get to the front door as quickly as possible, when he heard Dick _laughing_.

Like he hadn’t even a single time in that other world.

Jason stopped. Turned around. Entered the living-room.

“Hey, Dick.” He rushed the words out before that pesky little thing called common sense could stop him. “Want to go grab a beer, one of these days? You know, catch up- or something.” He finished lamely in the face of Dick’s astonishment.

He spent the following pause internally debating on whether to backpedal or not, because the total lack of response he was faced with was about as encouraging as being unexpectedly confronted to a severed toe was cheery. But then, his brother _beamed._

Brighter than the fucking sun. It was honestly painful to watch.

And suddenly there was an arm slung over his shoulders that was hauling him out of the Manor, Dick’s voice was yelling out enthusiastic goodbyes, and Jason was feeling all of twelve years old again, trying to keep up with the spirited embodiment of sunshine that was Dick Grayson.

Yeah, this universe sucked just as much as the other one.

He had to admit both had silver linings that made them enjoyable, though.

_**0.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Tim as having ADHD because, well I have it, quite severely. Like incapacitating when not on meds severely. And though I'm no genius, far from it actually, I can see a lot of my behaviours in Canon!Tim's. So here you have him being smart but missing the boring ordinary details of everyday life and hyperfocusing on the important things while missing the rest.
> 
> Hyperfocusing is both a gift and a curse because it's dead useful, but can also lead to being locked for an entire day in your empty school from Friday night to Saturday evening when you were 15 and only realising it about 13 hours in, when you've finished book five. ( Curse you library with all the Harry Potter books.)
> 
> No locking the door - or worse forgetting your keys on the door is also a pain in the ass. Thankfully, my neighbour is a wonderfully sweet guy that made sure I wouldn't end up murdered. Multiple times. I think he just checks my door every time he enters his home, by now. I can never face him again.   
> Neighbour, if you're reading this, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. You are a very kind person and I hope you never change. 
> 
> So, yeah... I'd like to see more characters with ADHD so Tim has it in this. It won't stop him from being the scary genius we know and love, but it will make him the human disaster I like to think he is. ( And for those who are not aware of this fact, caffeine is a gift of the Gods for most people with ADHD because it can actually allow us to focus. Stab me in the back 27th time if you wish to , but do not take away my caffeine. )
> 
>  
> 
> I'll stop rambling now. I hope you enjoy all of these and that your life is good at the moment. Have a nice day or evening or night or whatever it is currently wherever you are.


	7. A headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am completely ignoring canon I don't like. It's a problem. I hope they get to be a family again soon because the current state of event if hurting me. I liked them happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is absolute crack? I needed to write it after drowning in the angst of the last chapter.
> 
> Have fun!

“Statistically improbable.” Damian asserted one night during a brainstorming session in the Cave.

Grayson turned towards him, surprise etched all over his body-language.

“What statistics are we talking about here exactly, little D? This seems like it could be right up Luthor’s alley.”

Those attacks on the Superhero community did. Still, Damian had his doubts. And not solely because he’d been the latest prey of the villain orchestrating this scheme.

He slid his gaze away from where it rested on the back of Todd’s head, evaluating. He tried to dodge the question, not eager on having to explain his reasoning to Grayson with any of his other siblings in the room. He was not looking forward to the no doubt endless amount of mocking that would follow.

“The evidence is compelling.” He allowed. “But I do not think a brilliant mind such as Luthor’s would concern itself with the petty theft that followed each attack. Especially when one considers the state of his bank account.”

He evaded Drake’s suspicious look before continuing.

“He has also proven to have little to no interest in me in the past.” He scowled. “A mistake he’ll one day regret.”

Grayson was halfway through a ‘No, please don’t provoke Luthor.’ by the time Drake looked away, successfully distracted, and Damian could breathe again.

 

\-------

 

By the third time he had faced Lobo in a fight, Damian was starting to wonder if he was cursed.

He’d noticed the pattern as a child, of course, how could he have not? Considering who Damian was, who his grandfather was, many attempts on his life were made by a wide range of people. Even during training, he observed and wondered. But said pattern had become significantly more evident ever since he’d come to live with his father. One would think the increasing variety of enemies would break it but it only seemed to reinforce it, much to his chagrin.

Then came Vandal Savage, ruthlessly attacking him for no discernible reason. And Weather Wizard. Harley Quinn seemed to attack everyone in their family indiscriminately so Damian was unsure as whether to count her or not. He kept a tally, in a notebook. Grodd, Cheetah, Ivy, three more black marks that added up to a ridiculous theory.

The first time Mongul completely ignored him, he did not think much of it. As with Darkseid, he had more pressing matters to worry about at the time.

But when both Strange and Luthor ignored him in favor of less skilled opponents, Damian was forced to acknowledge the correlation, infuriating as it might have been.

Privately, though. It sounded too moronic to admit out loud.

 

\-------

 

“Are you sure?” Nightwing questioned, tone laced with worry.

“Quite. He will not notice me.”

“Robin, I know we’ve been working on stealth, but-”

“It is not that.” Damian interrupted him. “He will not see me, I guarantee it. Trust me.”

“I do. You know I do.” Richard sighed. “Just- Be careful, okay?”

“I shall.” He promised, nodding.

And with that, he melted amongst the shadows, dodging the patches of ice the latest Arkham escapee had splattered all around his hide-out.

It happened precisely the way he had expected it to. He managed to take Mr. Freeze down quickly, efficiently, and most importantly, without the villain noticing him.

He wanted to tear something apart. Yell, rage, anything.

He had to settle for accepting Father and Grayson’s praise on his “excellent infiltration work”.

 

 

\-------

 

 

Some enemies’ behaviors were more difficult to predict than other. He didn’t quite know what to expect from Killer Croc until he finally faced him.

Much to his relief – or, dare he even say satisfaction? - the cannibal attacked him with a ferocity unseen in anyone before.

Good. Damian was tired of being ignored by some of his Father’s most ruthless enemies.

Though he had to wonder what would happen if he ever faced Black Manta’s “pets”. Maybe he’d start small, attack Aqualad. Test the waters, so to speak.

He frowned. Grayson and his awful tendency for puns were obviously influencing him.

His Grandfather would disapprove.

 

\-------

 

He tried a number of small experiments after that, under his Father bemused surveillance, but never did manage to find a cause.

He resolved not to give up. There _had to be_ some sort of reason to this madness.

 

\-------

 

It all came to a head one night, while discussing strategies in a small dinner.

“I’m killing you now, Damian. This is happening.”

He stared at Todd. In truth, he could not accurately tell whether or not the nuisance had started balding since he’d become closer to the rest of their family. But he certainly wore his hair shorter.

“Many have tried. Many with much more hair.”

The cry of pure indignation that followed that declaration was almost worth the years of struggle he’d had to endure.

Almost.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many of you will recognize the dialog that prompted this particular bit of silliness. 
> 
> The lines "I'm killing you now, Damian, this is happening" and "Many have tried. Many with much more hair." are taken directly from Batman (2016) #16.


	8. A Headache pt2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian battles the curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is still complete crack. Because I am 19k words in a DitF memory angst hell. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the kudos and the comments. I treasure them.
> 
> Have fun people! Hope your year is going great so far!

“I’m thinking about growing out my hair again.” Grayson idly said late one night, over a bowl of the sort of sugary abomination he dared to label breakfast to Pennyworth’s face.

Damian froze.

Father leveled them both with a look, over his now-lowered newspaper. Then, proving one could be a world-renowned hero and still utterly useless nonetheless, he grunted. Damian took a small measure of comfort in the fact that the grunt seemed disapproving at the very best.

“Cool, glad you agree. That’s settled, then.”

Grayson… Did not interpret it as disapproving.

“You okay there, Dami?”

He was not.

“You look a little pale.”

Richard could not-

Lips pressed gently against his forehead.

“You don’t have a fever.”

Grayson’s concerned face entered his visual field. Grayson’s hands were on his shoulders, gentle, their pressure grounding.

“Please don’t.” Damian blurted out.

“Don’t what, little D?” He asked, looking for all the world like Damian was the only person in the room that mattered at that very moment. “Come on, tell me. What’s the matter?”

His cheeks burned with humiliation. He had never hated this curse more than at that very moment.

“Let your hair grow. Please don’t let your hair grow.” He mumbled.

Father grunted once more. In assent, perhaps. He hoped.

Richard looked lost.

“I… But why? I like it long.”

“I could not stand it.”

“Rude.” Grayson pouted. Damian gritted his teeth, but did not back down, looking at his older brother with desperate eyes. “It really means that much to you?”

He nodded, once, jerkily.

“Ooookay? I won’t?”

For the first time since Richard’s return from his Spyral mission, Damian initiated a hug. The hug was immediately returned with as much strength as it was given. Grayson kissed the top of his head again and Damian could not find it in him to regret begging.

“There must be something I’m missing here.”

“Thank you, Damian.” Father said, finally, as he left the room.

“Oh, come on!”

 

\-------

 

Drake had longer hair than the average person in their family. It had been getting even longer, lately.

Damian’s pen hovered over the two little columns in his notebook, unsure as to the side of the argument on which to place him.

It seemed far-fetched, for a coincidence. He decided to test his theory. He waited by his predecessor’s bedroom door, comfortingly shrouded in the shadows the beautiful old corridor offered him. The door creaked open and the son of Batman took advantage of the opportunity to talk with his brother alone.

“Timothy?” He called, in a slightly softer manner than usual.

“GAH!” Drake flailed wildly, almost losing his grip on the coffee mug he was holding. Dark-brown liquid splattered on polished wooden floors. “For the love of- Damian?”

Damian inclined his head. Though he was unnerved by the strong reaction, he knew better than to show weakness, particularly in front of family. Drake swallowed, his eyes still wide.

“Don’t call me that. I thought Ra’s-. Well, nevermind. Just _don’t_ call me that.”

He strode away, clutching at his cup and muttering under his breath.

Damian scrawled _Timothy Jackson Drake_ in the ‘in favour’ column of his ornate notebook.

 

\-------

 

Selina Kyle was entangled in a romantic relationship with his father.

Damian hadn’t yet met her. No, that was not accurate. He had met her before, briefly, he simply hadn’t yet seen her out of costume.

Father had arranged a dinner, for her to meet all of his children under ‘proper circumstances’, as Pennyworth had put it.

He was absolutely dreading it.

While under no illusion that his mother and father would ever find enough common ground to get back together, that did not mean he was looking forward to having a step-mother. A lot of the tales Grayson took the time to read with him some nights warned against their evilness.

All of his siblings had gathered for the occasion, though they all were already acquainted with her. Father seemed slightly nervous, keeping a hand on Damian’s shoulder as they waited. Grayson was shooting them worried glances, every few minutes.

He had been standing in the opulent entryway for ten minutes when Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, entered through one of the hallway’s windows.

Promising.

She was wearing a leather jacket, quite similar to the style Todd wore, stylish jeans, but most importantly, had long luscious blonde hair that fell past her shoulders.

Damian swallowed, trying to keep his disappointment from breaking through his carefully composed poker-face.

He tensed. Father squeezed his shoulder once, sending him a warning look.

Then Catwoman took off her _wig,_ revealing very short, dark hair for Damian to see.

He took a full breath. Shrugged Father’s hand off his shoulder and walked forward. He inclined his head, regally.

“My name is Damian Wayne.” He greeted formally. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She grinned.

“Nice to meet you, kid.”

He smiled tentatively back.

“Okay, that’s just not normal.” Brown’s voice sounded from where she was seated on the staircase behind them. “That was downright civil. Did you secretly bribe him with a kitten before coming, or what?”

He turned towards his future step-mother, and thought that Grayson’s tales must have been wrong. She had short hair and took care of cats. Clearly, some step-mothers were not villains. He glanced hopefully up at Selina.

She winked.

Father’s face lost its content look.

 

\-------

 

Brown’s swearing streak could be heard from three corridors down its original source.

Damian decided to investigate. The closer he walked to her unofficial bedroom, the more inventive the insults became until he couldn’t help but find himself reluctantly impressed by their creativity.

Entering her room, without knocking, he found Cassandra in the midst of calmly sweeping long blond strands from the floor while Brown observed herself in the mirror, ranting.

“Ruined, Cass! All because of that punk! Do you know how much time it took for my hair to get that long? How many overpriced products I had to swindle out of Bruce? I am looking at years, Cass, years! If I ever see her again, I’m going to shove an entire pack of gum up her-”

She whirled around to face him when they made eye-contact in the mirror.

“Go ahead, gloat.” She said, throwing her hands up dramatically. She looked genuinely annoyed for once. Her buzzed hair did not take away any of her fierceness.

“I… Do not find it abhorrent.” He said.

Brown was visibly taken aback.

“Thank you?”

Damian gave up any hope of ever understanding this curse.

**Author's Note:**

> For this collection of one-shots, I've chosen a word for each of the batboys ( Fall, hit, see, give. Should be fairly obvious what belongs to who.) and use idioms based on those words as prompts. 
> 
> Don't hesitate to tell me if you have a particular idiom/ other prompt in mind. I can't promise I'll write them all, because: 1) Life is complicated right now and 2) My inspiration is of the Lex Luthor kind. Makes pretty things shine in front of your eyes then stab you in the back when you're not expecting it, leaving you to die alone in your apartment, not having finished your work. But I'm really always interested in hearing about them!


End file.
